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wther Poems 



Grant Kyler 



Growing Old 

...and... 

Other Poems 

...by... 
Grant Kyler 

Foreword by 
Leigh Mitchell Hodges 



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Copyright, 1913, by GRANT KYLLR, Ashland, Pa 



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A FOREWORD 

'/T^O admit to these covers any word of 
Wl^self would be as far from Grant Kyler's 
thoughts as was this little book until one 
Sunday afternoon I asked that he print for 
me and others who love him such of his 
poems as I might choose from a portly 
scrap-book rich in rhymed fancies. 

However sweet the word-tunes here 
enclustered; however heartening, and re- 
mindful of such days and dreams as Mem- 
ory blends into the background of the aver- 
age life, — his best poem is only reflected in 
stray lines among these pages. 

It is a sort more rare than measured 

phrase, — the weaving into life-stanzas, 

aglow with work and kindness, of strands 

long tangled and trailed in the dust; the 

remolding into helpful meter of 

Faltering steps made firm through faith 
In Our Friend's forgiving love. 

So I was glad to have this wish granted 
by one whose quiet victory has strength- 
ened me and others, even as I am proud to 
know he counts me as 

His friend 
LEIGH MITCHELL HODGES 
Philadelphia 
April, 1913 



GROWING OLD 

LITTLE more frost in the chill winter 
air; 

A little less warmth in the sun ; 
A sprinkle of silvery white on the hair, 

And gladness when labor is done. 



A little less eager to enter the strife ; 

A little more patience to wait 
While others pass by on the highway of life — 

A little less railing at fate. 

A little less boastful of strength and of skill; 

A little more wasteful of time, 
And willing to rest at the foot of the hill, 

To measure the length of the climb. 

A dimness of vision for things of today; 

A far-sighted view of the past ; 
While shining with gold lies the westering way, 

As twilight and evening come fast. 




A PLACE I KNOW 

KNOW a place where willows stand 

Beside a quiet stream; 
The garden spot of fairy land, 
Entrancing as a dream; 
A place where silence seems complete, 

Until a melody 
Of waters singing, low and sweet, 
Makes rich the harmony. 

Where robber bees in treasure cave, 

Beneath a bramble's root, 
The pilfered sweets of blossoms save, 

And store their summer loot ; 
While velvet-footed chipmunks run 

Along a mossy rail, 
And dragon flies, 'neath summer sun, 

Their shimm'ring wings unveil. 

Where Nature's organ softly plays 

Among the templed trees, 
An anthem of rich summer days, 

Encored by every breeze; 
And sounding through a solemn hush, 

There sweetly floats along, 
From golden-throated lark or thrush, 

A hallelujah song. 



THE COVERED WAY 

T~ | HE night is but a covered way to bind 
A day that was unto a day to be, 
And when the sun's bright lamp is quenched, 
I find 
The covered way so dark I cannot see 
The day that lies beyond; 
Yet strong my faith that I shall find the light 
Beyond the covered way of gloomy night ; 
So, when the shadows gather gray and deep, 
For dawn I wait within the house of sleep. 

I know that sunshine follows after dark, 

And that the Autumn-death will surely bring 
Unto the hidden nest the meadow lark 
To sing the resurrection song of Spring, 
When buds will burst their bonds, 
And life — a stronger, newer life — will start, 
And force the gates of Winter's grave apart 
In answer to the all-compelling voice 
That conquers death and leaves to souls no choice. 

I know not when these mortal leaves shall turn 

All brown and sere, and shrivel in a day; 
Nor when the lamp of life shall cease to burn 
And shadows gather o'er the covered way 
That leads from night to morn; 
But this I know : faith stronger is than fate, 
And when within the house of sleep I wait 
The coming of the light, a day divine 
Will dawn as sure as 'morrow's sun will shine 



TO FRIENDS OF OTHER DAYS 



S8|jpj5J T evening when the twilight falls, 
Jr\. And length 'ning shadows cast, 

JLu jh There is a still, small voice that calls 
ypK|f A From out the distant past, 

With sound as sweet as silver bells, 
Or elfin music in the dells, 
While thoughts come crowding fast. 



With half-closed eyes I sit and dream 

Of long-since vanished days ; 
While fairy fancies dance and gleam, 

And flit before my gaze: 
Like forms reflected in a brook, 
Or sunbeams in a shady nook 

As light through darkness strays. 

Tis then I see the friends held dear 

In youth, who passed away; 
The golden days when skies were clear 

And work seemed only play; 
And feel with pleasure, almost pain, 
The joys of childhood once again 

When all the world was gay. 

A sacred place within my heart, 
Kept always fresh and green, 

Is mem'ry's garden, set apart 
To days that once have been ; 

And planted in that hallowed spot 

There grows and blooms Porget-me-Not, 
Sweet scented, pure and clean. 




THE MINOR CHORD 

| HEN a master hand is sweeping 
O'er the polished ivory keys, 
And a minor chord is weeping 
In the voice its magic frees, 
I can hear the rhythmic swinging 
Of a cradle on the floor, 
And a woman softly singing 
By a partly open door. 

And a drowsy bee is droning 

Jnst beyond the window sill, 
Like the faint and muffled moaning 

Of a distant woodland mill ; 
Far away a buzzard soaring, 

Higher mounts before my eyes, 
In a graceful spiral boring 

Even upward through the skies. 

And a lazy lad is lying, 

Half-asleep, beneath a tree, 
While the minor chord is sighing 

For the days that used to be — 
Ah ! the woman 's song is over, 

Lo, these many, many years, 
And the lad that slept in clover 

Knows the bitter taste of tears. 




THE SPIRIT OF OPTIMISM 



GATHER the roses of pleasure, 
The thistles of trouble and tears, 

And fill to the brim a heart's measure 
Of hopes all entangled with fears. 



I pick out the jewels of gladness — 
The days that were sunny and bright- 

And find they are better than sadness 
To lighten the gloom of the night. 

I know that a yesterday's sorrow 
Is soothed by a touch of today ; 

That tears are the smiles of tomorrow ; 
That work is prophetic of play. 

I balance the burdens I'm bearing 
With others from which I am free, 

And feel that the yoke I am wearing 
Is light as the foam of the sea. 

I learn that the secret of living 

Is doing the best that I can, 
And offer a prayer of thanksgiving 

To God for His goodness to man. 




MY QUEEN OF THE MAY 

WISH that I again might see 

The smile upon her face, 
When I, a-flush with victory, 
Had won a boyish race; 
How kind the look the dear eyes gave ; 

How soft and light the hand; 
How sweet the voice that called me brave 
In childhood's far-off land. 

I'd like once more if she could hear 

My ''lay me down to sleep;" 
To catch the whispered "I am near," 

When shadows gather deep; 
To feel her arms about me cling, 

And fold me to her breast; 
And in the twilight hear her sing 

My little fears to rest. 

I 'd like to wipe away the stain 

Of all the tears she shed; 
To make each hill a level plain 

Of velvet to her tread ; 
To pluck from out the rose the thorn — 

If she were here today, 
I 'd plan a feast of wine and corn, 

And crown her Queen of May. 




A PIPE DREAM 

ROM the cares of the world he found re- 
lease 
While watching the smoke from his pipe of 
peace ; 

And to him it seemed, as he slept and dreamed, 
That he traveled a winding path which led 
From the garden gate of an old homestead, 

Over a hill, to an old stone mill, 
Where the whispering winds in the willows call 
To a barefoot boy by a waterfall. 

He followed the pathway, all alone, 
Through a clover field, where the lazy drone 

Of bees was heard, and his joy was stirred 
By the wordless song in a minor strain, 
And his soul was filled with the sweet refrain 

Of summer days, when the distant haze 
Enwraps the earth in a royal gown 
And hangs like a veil o'er the path of brown. 

And his heart was filled with a sense of rest — 
As he turned again to the old home nest 

A cradle song came floating along, 
And he heard once more, 'neath the evening sky, 
The words of an old-time lullaby; 

When pure and clear, from the orchard near, 
Came the twilight call of a whippoorwill — 
And he woke from his dream — an old man still. 



THE WEAVER AND THE MAID 

THE MAID TO THE WEAVER. 

H, Weaver, thread thy loom with glee, 
| For I a bride am soon to be, 

And weave for me a cloth of gold, 
I And warp a smile in every fold. 




I want no tinge of sorrow's brown 
To dull the glory of my gown; 
No jealous green, nor passion's red, 
Else I, perchance, hot tears may shed. 

I want a cloth as light and fair 
As mist upon the morning air — 
So fashion me a garment gay 
To wear upon my wedding day. 

THE WEAVER TO THE MAID. 
Oh, Maiden fair, upon my loom 
There ever plays a strand of gloom, 
And through the cloth of gold so bright 
There warps and winds a thread of night. 

Yet I for thee will gaily weave 
A cloth of gold and make believe 
And place within each fold a smile, 
To last thee for a little while. 

A little while ! a year, a score — 
I pray 'twill last till life is o'er — 
When love may drape the filmy cloud 
About thy form — a bridal shroud. 



THE PSALM OF GRACE 



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HE Lord my Shepherd is, and he will keep 
Me safe, and when at last I sleep, 
He 11 lay me down in pastures green and rest 
My weary head upon his breast. 

When 'midst the vale's dark shades my soul shall flee 

His rod and staff will comfort me, 

Until the Morning Star shall rise and shine 

With everlasting light divine. 

No want I'll know when I shall walk beside 
The silent waters with my guide, 
For he, my Lord, in righteous paths will lead 
My soul and grant my every need. 

Before His table He will place a seat 
Close by my loving Master's feet, 
And fill my cup with joy till it o'erflows 
With pleasure that no mortal knows. 

And with my Lord in peace my soul shall dwell 
Beside the everlasting well, 
And through eternal years with love abide, 
Safe sheltered near my Shepherd's side. 




ALONG THE WAY 

VER the bridge of life we go, 

Quietly, one by one, 
Treading the path where all winds 
blow, 

Facing a land we do not know, 
Beyond the setting sun. 

Into the shadows dim and gray, 

Pressing onward alone, 
On through the darkness at close of day, 
Guided by faith along the way, 

Unto the mercy throne. 

Halting beneath the cypress tree, 

Blinded by tears of grief, 
Bearing our trials on bended knee, 
Unto the cross for strength we flee, 

Finding through faith relief. 

With hearts grown faint we plod along 

Over the rugged road; 
Hearing at last the glory song, 
Hast'ning to meet the distant throng, 

Casting aside the load. 




THE IMPRISONED THRONE 

AR hid from sight of human kind 
A royal emblem was confined 
Within an ugly shell, 
Awaiting for the master hand, 
With strength to cleave the outward band 
And free it from its cell. 

Embedded in the earth it lay, 

A shapeless mass beneath the clay 

Till work removed the soil, 
And brought to light a rugged stone, 
Which labor shaped into a throne 

By years of earnest toil. 

The keenest glance would fail to trace 
The faintest line of comely grace 

In that misshapen thing, 
Which years had passed and time forgot, 
Until the hand of patience wrought 

A throne to bear a king. 

So talents sometimes buried lie, 
Beyond the ken of mortal eye, 

Till patient labor clears 
The overtopping clay that hides 
The uncouth stone wherein abides 

The shape that beauty wears. 



J 




I 

s 



WHEN I WAS KING 

!GHT came, with velvet tread and silent 

feet, 
And bathed my eyes in poppy-dew, so sweet 
That I, with sleep enraptured, quiet lay 
And dreamed that I was king, just for a day, 
And sat in royal state 
Beside the city gate, 
And gave command that all should bend the knee 
Who passed that way — for I was king, you see. 

Oft had I thought of how a king should rule, 
And how comport himself with sage and fool; 
How hold the royal sceptre in his hand, 
And wear the crown with grace, and give command 

In haughty tone, and frown 

While clothed in purple gown — 
For he who wears the purple ne'er should smile, 
When he is king for just a little while. 

O'er all the world I ruled from sun to sun, 
And wished the day was o'er e'er scarce begun; 
The sceptre was too large, the crown too tight, 
The royal robes refused to hang aright — 

A pretty king was I — 

A start — a gasp — a cry — 
And from the throne I fell. The royal feet 
Had somehow got entangled in the sheet. 




WAITING FOR ME 

T evening, oft I saw her stand 
Within the open door, 
Where slanting sunbeams forged a 
band 

Of gold upon the floor ; 
With arm upraised to shield her eyes 

That she might better see 
The highway merged in purple skies, 
While keeping watch for me. 

With love responsive, quick she came 

To comfort me at night, 
(If I but whispered mother's name 

The dark was filled with light), 
And bending o 'er the trundle bed 

Would patient vigil keep, 
Until the ghostly shadows fled, 

And I was fast asleep. 

I know she waits and watches still. 

With welcome in her smile, 
Beyond the brow of life's steep hill, 

Beside the golden stile, 
Where she with mother-love will plead, 

All tenderness and grace, 
That he who caused her heart to bleed 

May find with her a place. 




DANNY JONES AND HIS PIPE 

JD old Danny Jones, as he lay in his bed 
'Awaiting the snip that would sever life's 

thread : 
J" The pleasure of heaven will be incomplete 
Without my dudeen, so well seasoned and sweet; 
So. please don't forget, when you put me away, 
To place in my cold hands the darling old clay — 
'Twill comfort me much if the journey be long; 
To leave it behind would be doing it wrong. 

"When sorrow was sweeping the ash off my he'rth, 
I found my old clay the best friend upon earth ; 
When troubles were rolling their waves o'er my soul, 
I'd snatch them and pack them within the old bowl, 
And watching the smoke as it fled to the skies 
A comforting peacefulness in me would rise — 
Quite often together we two would converse, 
And mostly conclude that things might have been worse." 

And old Danny Jones, with his last gasp of breath, 
Said "how-do-you-do, Sir," when greeted by Death; 
And when he was taking his last lonesome ride, 
The old pipe of clay was held close by his side — 
Last evening, while watching a fast flying cloud, 
I saw the old fellow, with wide-spreading shroud, 
Go speeding along with his dudeen alight, 
A long trail of gray smoke denoting his flight. 



THE HARBOR OF REST 



S3P 



N the peaceful home nest is a Harbor of Kest, 
When the work of the toiler is done, 
And the cares that abide on the ebb of the 
tide 
Sail away in the wake of the sun. 



Sail away out of sight o 'er the waves of the night, 

Till they leave not a ripple behind 
In the sheltering bay, where the storms of the day 

Never ruffle the calm of the mind. 

When the sun goes to sleep in the vast western deep, 

There is joy in the Harbor of Home ; 
And there 's rest for awhile when the star faces smile 

From the windows in heaven's vast dome. 




THE FORGETTERY 

N Memory's attic I've fashioned a room, 
With never a window to lighten the gloom, 
Wherein I have gathered a wonderful lot 
Of things that are better for being forgot. 

There, broken and dulled, are the arrows and spears 
Of Ridicule tipped with the poison of tears ; 
And sarcastic Humor, whose quick-flying darts 
Were feathered with smiles to impale tender hearts. 

A quill that was plucked from the Gossip Bird's wing; 
A nettle of Scorn with its venomous sting ; 
A Truth but half spoken, distorted and bent, 
In confidence whispered with evil intent. 

And, too, there is hidden away out of sight, 
Wrapped closely around in the garment of night, 
A bundle of Grief, and a cup that is stained 
With hemlock that Sorrow in agony drained. 

All, all, are forgotten !I '11 never more climb 
The stairs to the attic, where covered with grime, 
The things that are better for being forgot 
Are lost in the dark of the loneliest spot. 




TO A CATERPILLAR 

OST know, thou loathsome, creeping thing, 
Whose instinct prompts thee when to weave 
thy shroud, 
That, recreated, thou canst wing 
Thy flight on airy pinions to yon cloud, 
And with thy fairy colors bright 
Add to the world one more delight ! 

Hast thou foreknowledge of the fate 
That doth await thy resurrection morn, 

When thou shalt force apart death's gate 
And reappear transformed and newly born ; 

A thing of beauty, blithe and gay, 

To float 'mid blooms where sunbeams play? 

Or dost thou do the Master's will 

Unknowing that, some day thou shalt receive 
A beauteous shape, and thus fulfill 

On earth the hope of those who now believe 
That after death each soul, like thine, 
Will be transformed bv touch divine? • 



APR 26 1913 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

imnHmii 

015 926 194 3 



